


Displacement

by roane



Series: Defence Mechanisms [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Genderplay, John is a Horndog, Pre-Slash, Queer Het, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dis·place·ment [dis-pleys-muhnt]: Psychoanalysis. the transfer of an emotion from its original focus to another object, person, or situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [roseredhoofbeats](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roseredhoofbeats/pseuds/roseredhoofbeats) and [emmadelosnardos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos) for the hand-holding and the beta! AND, holy crap I can't believe I forgot this, major thanks to [suchanadorer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer) for triggering this with the fantastic ["What He Likes"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/335265), which you should go read, right now.

_dis·place·ment [dis- **pleys** -m _uh_ nt]: _Psychoanalysis_. the transfer of an emotion from its original focus to another object, person, or situation._

 

It's been an unbearable three days, and John knows what he really needs is to sleep for the next twelve hours. He also knows that he should stay in the flat, make sure that Sherlock eats something, make sure he goes to bed, but John just can't.

More than seventy-two hours of nothing but Sherlock: it's enough to drive anybody round the twist. John knows he's not just anybody, that he has a greater capacity to cope with Sherlock Holmes in full-on case-solving mode than just about anybody. But the lack of sleep combined with the lack of privacy—seriously, the man barely gave him time to go to the loo without thinking aloud at him the whole time—and the constant worry that they were about to get shot, John has reached his limit.

“I'm going out,” he says, pulling his coat back on. “Eat something, for god's sake. And get some sleep.”

“John? Where are you going?” Sherlock is momentarily distracted from poking at his experiments.

“Just for a walk. I'll be back later. There's pad thai in the fridge. Eat it and go to bed. Doctor's orders.” He escapes from the pressure of 221B, of Sherlock's constant presence.

It's a running joke down at the Yard how John Watson can't keep a girlfriend for more than a few weeks. Those who've seen the sometimes public break-up discussions will say it all comes back to Sherlock. And it does, it always does. Sherlock is too demanding of John's time, his energy, his brain-space for anyone else to fit.

But those are just the women John Watson brings home. There are others, who never so much as shadow the door of 221B. One-night stands are never going to be his preferred method of achieving orgasm, but it's a method that works, and no one is getting hurt by it. He prefers to go off on the pull farther away from Baker Street—he's never really stopped to think about why. He winds up in a pub miles away, relishing a moment of solitude while waiting for his pint, eyes moving restlessly over the weekend crowd.

He spots her almost immediately. He hears a throaty laugh from one of the tables and turns to see her, creamy idealized English skin startling set against coal black hair (he learns later that she dyes it and he doesn't care). She's all sharp angles and smooth planes, not quite model-thin, but not far from it. He can't hear the conversation she's having with her companions, but the spark in her eye is enough to hold his interest.

When she stands to head to the bar, he catches her eye and smiles, raising his glass. Entirely coincidentally, she winds up talking to the barman from just a few feet away from him. She's a good five inches taller than him in her heels, and he can't stop stealing glances up at her. They exchange names (she's called Maggie) and when she goes back to her table, he follows, a little surprised to be so drawn by such a pair of narrow hips.

If there's one thing he can be, it's charming. After a flirty conversation, and a laughter-fueled, tipsy game of darts, the evening ends in her flat, the two of them panting and pulling at each other's clothing before the door is properly closed.

It's odd, at first, to be kissed by someone leaning down to him, waves of her dark hair falling to either side of his face. He tells himself it's the novelty that makes it so intense. He undresses her in the entryway of her flat, pressing her back to the door as he peels away layers of fabric and tosses them aside.

“A man who doesn't waste time,” she murmurs, “I approve.”

John huffs a short laugh, but remains intent on his task. Once she stands before him in nothing but a wispy pair of knickers and her heels, he pulls her mouth down to his with one hand while his free hand wanders over curves that aren't quite there: slender hips, tiny pert breasts. Maggie gasps against his mouth when his fingers tweak a nipple. He presses his teeth into the smooth white line of her neck, grinding his hips against her so she can feel his arousal through the clothing he still wears.

When her breathing spins into a low whine, his fingers trail and dip down over the almost concave curve of her ribs and belly, toying with the edge of the fragile fabric at her hips. He drags just the tip of his fingers downwards, and they pull the fabric with them. As the gossamer threads fall to the floor, he nips his way down to her collarbone, sucking lightly at the pale skin to watch it redden then fade.

She reaches for him, tugging at his jacket, which he never managed to take off. He hears it land somewhere across the room. But when she moves to unbutton his shirt, he stops her, pressing her hands firmly back against the door as his mouth slides inexorably lower, keeping her hands pinned until his mouth reaches one peaked nipple, keeping them pinned until she gets his meaning. She groans and wraps one long-fingered hand around the doorknob for support and fists the other one against the door panel and he lets go.

John moves down in a slow, fluid crouch until he flickers the tip of his tongue against the sharp angle of her hip. She whimpers and he looks up, pressing his open mouth at the top of her thigh. “Jesus, yes,” she gasps. Smiling against her skin, he nudges her knees apart by trailing fingernails up the inside of her thigh until his knuckles brush the wet curls of her pubic hair. She nearly falls in her haste to open her legs and let him brush his thumb over wet lips, nudging them aside to barely flicker a feather touch against her clit. He can smell her, the damp heat making his mouth water just a little.

Drawing one smooth thigh over his shoulder and keeping one hand firmly curled around one buttock with fingertips just barely teasing open the crack, he nuzzles his nose against her pussy, inhaling her scent once more before sneaking out his tongue for a long, slow lick. He may occasionally trip over his tongue while chatting someone up, but here it never lets him down. Her heel slides up his back and the hand not clinging to the doorknob moves to clutch at his hair. John presses the flat of his tongue firmly between her lips and laps at her clit, while he catches the hand in his hair with his left hand and presses it back against the door. This time he doesn't let go so quickly, keeping her hand pinned while his mouth explores every sweet, wet fold. He's rewarded with a rush of wetness over his tongue, salty-sweet.

“Ah, Jesus,” she cries, and he can feel her legs start to quiver. He lets go of her hand to slide his fingertips over the cool ivory of her hips, grasping with both hands so he can bury his face in her, jaw and tongue and mouth all working in concert until her hips start to jerk against him. “Oh fuck, please don't stop,” were the only coherent words he hears from her before she gasps and jerks hard enough to lose contact, but his hands pull her back to his mouth where he drinks down every bit of her orgasm, his head spinning with need.

John slides up the length of her body, tormenting himself with the heat of her skin pressing through his clothes. He draws her down for a long kiss, a test of sorts to see how she responds to her taste in his mouth. She moans and breaks the kiss to nibble and lap all around his mouth and chin, seeking out her own taste and scent on his skin. He gives over to her then, knees weakened by the greedy way she devours any trace she's left behind.

They wind up on her bed and John lets her undress him, moving only to wriggle out of his jeans, and to shoulder out of his shirt. Maggie straddles him, and she's glorious, absolutely glorious, glowing with heat as she takes his cock in her hand and guides it straight to where he most wants to be. But he knows himself, and he knows this will never do. He pulls her down to him, biting at her lips before rolling her over to fuck her properly, the way he needs to.

He's inside of her, she's writhing beneath him, but it's still not enough, it's still not what he needs. He draws back, jaw clenching at losing the sensation of her wrapped around him. She whimpers and he answers, “Turn over.”

She hesitates and he teases her by dipping the tip of one finger between her lips and inside her. She arches her back and moans before curling to her side and rolling to her knees. “All right, but no funny stuff.”

He leans over her back in answer, lapping at the base of her spine before sliding upwards, angling his cock to nudge at the lips of her pussy, parting them and sliding deeper with exquisite slowness. John's breath catches in his throat. The long, pale, slender back undulating against his cock, shadow of dark curls at the nape of her neck--the rush of heat that floods his body from cock upwards catches him off-guard. He has to close his eyes for a moment to keep from losing control too early. Realization makes them open again, wide.

John's hips move of their own volition, dragging slow and steady, in and out, as he tries to make sense of what he's seeing. _You see but you don't observe_ , comes a mocking voice in his head. He resists the urge to close his eyes again and focuses on the body moving beneath him. “Oh god,” he groans, not entirely out of just pleasure. The longer he watches her slim, boyish body take him in, the longer he watches sweat droplets form on smooth white skin, dampening her short dark hair, the greater the pleasure grows until he finally has to close his eyes, his head dropping back. “Oh god,” he says again, the only warning he has time to give her before he spasms hard, jerking quick movements of his hips until he feels the rippling curl at the start of her second orgasm, hurriedly replacing his softening cock with his fingers and mouth until he feels her sag against the bed.

Maggie reaches out to him with a trembling hand and he lets her pull him up, too spent to resist. “Where did you come from and how long can I keep you?” she breathes shakily.

He laughs and kisses away salt from her shoulder. “I'm on loan from the British government, I suppose.”

“Bloody hell.” She rolls to face him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Can you stay?”

He freezes for a moment. “I'd like to, I really would--”

“No, that's fine,” and it actually sounds like it is, as she's still snuggled against him with no hint of tension in her body.

“Another time?” he asks, because Jesus Christ does he hope there's another time.

“Mmm,” she says, and bites at the side of his neck. “Next time you don't get off so easily.”

God. He doesn't bother to hide the shiver.


	2. Chapter 2

It isn't until he's nearly home that he starts to feel like the world's worst excuse for a human being. Although not normally given to bouts of introspection, he tries to puzzle out why. Post-coital guilt has never really been his thing. He plays through the events of the evening, trying to determine if he's done something to be ashamed of. It's nearly impossible to remain detached, and in a few moments he's rewatching the curve of her back as he works in her, but the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate, and he knows he's got it wrong. The musculature in her back is too pronounced, the curve of her arse is entirely different and—the cab jerks to a stop and John's eyes fly open. _Oh bloody hell._

He climbs out and pays off the driver, acutely aware that he's already getting hard again and really not wanting to examine the reasons too closely. There is no way in hell he's going into the flat in this state, and he stands on the pavement for a few moments with his head lowered, taking deep breaths, fists clenched at his sides.

It takes longer than he would have thought to will his body into submission. He lifts his head and squares his shoulders, and opens the door of 221B as if nothing has happened.

In retrospect, he really should have known better.

Sherlock has disregarded part of his instructions, and is still awake and using John's laptop when John comes in. He's at least gratified to see a dirty plate at Sherlock's elbow, indicating that he wasn't entirely ignored. “Feeling better?” John can see the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch by the light of the computer screen. He really should have showered before leaving Maggie's, but if he had, Sherlock would still know,simply from the fact that he'd showered.

“Yes. Thank you.” John passes through the flat to the bathroom for a shower, hopefully to forestall any further questions about his evening activities. Hopefully.

After, he hopes to slip past Sherlock and go to bed and sleep for the next day or so. All of his luck seems to have been spent earlier in the evening. As he walks past, Sherlock says, “'Walk' is a euphemism of which I was previously unaware.” He looks so smug that John's fingers clench involuntarily. “'Walking' agrees with you. You're much less out-of-sorts now.” It's bad enough that Sherlock knows exactly what he's been up to. John tries to keep his face concealed by shadows out of fear that Sherlock will be able to read his expression and know exactly what he was thinking while he was doing it.

“Sherlock, just go to bed.” He escapes to his room and into blessed unconsciousness.

 

When he wakes the next afternoon, he rolls over and reaches to check his phone. There's a text waiting for him from Maggie.

_**I will never look at my front door the same way again.** _

John smiles and rolls over on to his back, hands behind his head. There's not much on tap for him today. He should write up the latest case, although aside from “Three Days Trapped in Hell with My Insane Flatmate” he's not feeling terribly inspired on a title.

He spends a moment trying to come up with a return text to Maggie. Feeling just a little bit wicked, he responds with:  _**Wait until you see what I can do with a table.** _

Rather than waiting for a response, he rolls out of bed and gets dressed. Sherlock is still asleep, to judge by the closed door—normally he leaves it open. John goes through his usual routine: tea, toast, papers, even though it's a few hours later than usual. Lestrade rings just before he's finished the  _Telegraph._ He calls Sherlock's mobile, but John has no qualms about reaching over to check, then answer it. It's not like Sherlock ever gets a call that isn't case-related.

“Sherlock's still sleeping,” is how he answers.

“He _sleeps_? John, can you wake him for this one?”

“Bad?”

“Pretty bad, yeah.”

“Yeah, hang on.” John pauses. “Can I call you back? This could get ugly.” The problem with never sleeping is that when he did sleep, Sherlock slept hard.

He rings off and pockets Sherlock's phone. He pauses a moment before knocking. “Sherlock. It's Lestrade, he's got a case.”

Nothing.

Louder knock.

Still nothing.

He knows Sherlock has to be around—he would have never left the house without his phone. John has a brief moment of wondering if something has gone wrong and quickly dismisses it, swinging the bedroom door open.

Sherlock is sprawled loose-limbed across his bed on his stomach. His back is bare and he's knocked away blankets. Both arms are curled bracket-wise around his head. At first John thinks something  _is_ wrong, but after a second he realizes it's just that he's never seen Sherlock this still before. He's reluctant to wake him. Hell, he's reluctant to even approach him. Lestrade sounded pretty grim, so John steps forward. His brain helpfully supplies images of Maggie from the night before, just in case he was interested in making a comparison. He tries to tell himself it's too much like seeing your sister naked, before reaching down to give Sherlock's shoulder a gentle shake.

Sherlock's skin is hot, almost fevered, to the touch, as if all of the mental energy that went unused as he slept is channelling through his body. It's also quite smooth, almost like marble worn away by time, and John can feel a surprising layer of muscle under—and what the bloody hell is he thinking? John gives Sherlock another, firmer shake, and steps back.

“Sherlock. Case.”

“Mmph.”

“Look, Lestrade called, and he's got a case. He sounded pretty shaken.”

“I'm awake.” Sherlock doesn't open his eyes at first, then cracks one to peer at John. “Coffee?”

“Right. Get dressed. I'll make some.” John makes a sharp turn and leaves, not precisely beating a retreat so much as making a tactical withdrawal.

 

The crime scene is a messy one. Detachment is something John has down to an art form. It's the only way to look at walls covered in blood and a mangled body without going mad. Today though, today he can't focus. He talks with Lestrade about the possible cause of death—surprisingly, or perhaps not, there are several possibilities—but his eyes keep going back to Sherlock. John is confused, and just a little bit frightened.

“John.”

John blinks, aware that Lestrade had spoken to him more than once. “I'm sorry. Rough night. You were saying?”

“I said, 'You're sure she didn't just bleed out?'”

“Not one hundred percent. It could be. We'll need a more thorough post-mortem to be sure.” Sherlock finishes his initial examination of the room and is coming towards them. John continues, gesturing at the gore around them. “Believe it or not, this isn't actually enough blood for exsanguination.”

“Christ,” Lestrade responds. Sherlock's ready to debrief the DI, so John wanders away. The dizzying speed with which Sherlock observes thinks is normally fascinating, but it's too much right now. There's too much John wants to hide. He ducks his head and reaches for his mobile.

_**Busy tonight?** _ He knows it's probably too soon, but right now seeing Maggie again seems like the best answer to everything that's wrong.

They're on their way back to 221B before he gets a response. _**Nothing I won't gladly shift. Drinks at my place, 10pm?**_ And just like that, relief floods through him.

_**Absolutely.** _

“John?”

He looks up. “Hm?”

“All right? You... sighed.”

“Oh... it's Harry. She wants me to come round tonight.” He doesn't stop to think about why he's lying to Sherlock, or even to think that he might be able to get away with it. The words just come out. Mercifully, Sherlock is distracted by the game.

“Mm,” is the only response he gets, and not for the first time, John is grateful for Sherlock's occasional bouts of silence.

 

The drinks never actually happen. As soon as he's through the door, they're on each other. They manage to make it to the couch, fumbling at each other with mouths locked together and oh _god_ she's wearing a scarf for fuck's sake, just a little knitted thing a woman might wear for extra warmth in the office, but it's a _scarf_ and it's dark blue and it matches her eyes and John knows right then he is going out of his mind. All he wants to do is tear away everything but the scarf and fuck her until they both scream.

After, breathless, he lays sprawled atop her on the couch, legs still quivering and burning in the afterglow. She smiles a dark-edged smile up at him. “Dr. Watson, you certainly know how to impress a girl. I'd make a comment about your bedside manner, but we seem to have a terrible time making it there.” Her face is flushed with exertion and the chemicals in her bloodstream. She laughs and tugs away the scarf, as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh for Christ's sake. We _were_ distracted, weren't we?”

He's a little relieved that fucking her face-to-face made it easier to keep _her_ in his mind—easier, but not easy. He lowers his head to nip at the fevered flesh that had been hidden by the scarf, drawing a low growl from her throat. Her skin is so overheated, radiating heat, it's almost like—John bites down on that thought as he bites down on the side of her throat, hearing her sounds change to a gasp, then a moan. He draws back away from her and tugs her to her feet. He's not a large man, but he's strong, and what's more, he's determined. Pulling her mouth down to his, he leans her back against his arm and scoops her behind her knees, carrying her to the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning he wakes up in an unfamiliar bed—he thinks he may have texted Sherlock to tell him he wasn't coming home, but he can't remember—and the first thought in his mind is, _This can't be healthy._ Maggie is curled on her side away from him, breathing with the faint soft susurrus of the deeply asleep.He rolls to his side and props himself up on his elbow to study her. She's gorgeous, just fucking _gorgeous_ , and by all rights she should be utterly out of his league. The pale skin that caught his eye practically gleams in the early morning light— _like marble_. He reaches out a finger to stroke down the curve of her spine, tempted to wake her. The way she moves beneath him when he's deep inside the hot, sweet pussy of hers, the way she tastes, it's everything he associates with the word 'feminine'. So why is it that all he can think of is how badly he wants to cover the boyish curve of her arse with kisses, bites and then--

He rolls back on to his back with a huff of frustration, tugging the coverlet over his chest. _This_ can't _be healthy_. He's a doctor for fuck's sake. He did a clinical rotation in psychiatry. It's textbook, what he's doing. The only question is _why_. His sexual experience with men has been pretty much limited to typical adolescent horseplay—and well, things sometimes happen when you're stationed far from home, and it's not like anybody in his squadron was taking it _seriously_. It's never been anything he's thought about otherwise. Men don't do it for him. Except.

Except one does. And John has no idea what to do with that, how to process it, aside from finding a woman who looks just like him and fucking her like a madman. This is not, he is fairly certain, a sustainable state of affairs.

For one thing, it's completely unfair to Maggie. She deserves better than this. If he's smart—if he's honourable _—_ he'll just get up out of her bed right now and go home.

John gets so far as to throw back the coverlet and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He hears rustling behind him as Maggie stirs. “Oi,” she says, sleep clouding and roughening her voice. “Are you pulling a runner on me?”

He turns to look at her, tousled and warm against the sheets, and doesn't know what to say. Maggie's eyes grow more alert as she struggles to sit up and keep the covers against her chest. “John. What is it?”

“This is—this has been amazing. More than amazing. And I--”

She lifts a hand and rests a finger against his lips to stop him. “You never really said. Are you cheating on someone?”

 _Yes_. “No. No, nothing like that. I'm single.” He gives a short bark of a laugh. “Perpetually single. It's that... This wasn't—this wasn't anything I was really planning for. My life is, well it's a bit crazed, to be honest. I don't want you to--”

Maggie's expression relaxes from concerned to amused. “Oh bless. I'm not going to fall in love with you, John.” She takes his hand. “Look, you're a fantastic shag, really just bloody fantastic. And that's all I have room for right now.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You're serious?”

She laughs. “No, I'm not. That's what I just said, weren't you listening?” She leans forward, letting the sheet sag away from her body, and presses her mouth to his, short and hot. “This, right here and now, is just fine.”

 

John returns home to find Sherlock staring blankly into space, almost exactly as he'd left him twelve hours before. Had the man moved at all all night? “Morning,” John says. “Get my text?”

“Yes. And how is Harry?” The slight, oh-so-slight emphasis on the last word. John knows he's on dangerous ground.

“Fine. She's fine. Listen, have we got anything on for today?” Keep talking, talk right past whatever Sherlock's about to come out with. “I was thinking we could--”

“John.” The word severs his sentence as neatly and definitively as a cleaver. “Where you spend your nights and who you spend them with is none of my concern.”

What an odd sensation, to feel his heart sinking in his chest. Strange. Inexplicable. 

Sherlock continues, “Do not, however, think you can deceive me about it. Don't ever think you're capable of that.”

The sinking feeling is replaced with a flare of heat, fast burning and hungry. “Not—I'm not..? You don't know what I'm capable of.” His mind races ahead of words, snatching up the right ones and putting them in order. He steps forward, hands curled loosely. “You—you utter _prick_. You know, despite what you think, you don't know everything there is to know about me. I don't care if you are the magnificent Sherlock fucking Holmes. You have a blind spot so fucking complete you don't even know it's _there_ , and there are parts of me that just vanish behind it.”

John is gratified to see that he's startled Sherlock. But not gratified enough to stick around. “John, I--”

“Sod off,” John says, and slams his way up the stairs to his room.

 

The next few days are passed in silence. John proves that Sherlock is not the only one who can hold a sulk for an extended period of time. He doesn't see Maggie in that time, although they do exchange a few texts.

_**-You didn't tell me you were famous.** _

_**-What?** _

_**-Famous blogger, John Watson. :) Bloody hell, your flatmate isn't half dishy. How do you live with that?** _

_**-Well, what he lacks in general good manners he makes up for with an overwhelmingly poor sense of appropriate behaviour.** _

_**-Tch. Bit of a tiff, then?** _

A few days later, he and Sherlock are in the back of a cab, racing towards the latest atrocity that needs their expertise. John's phone chimes, and he finds a photo of Maggie, naked and visible only from the shoulders down, standing with her back facing a mirror, and thus, the camera. The perfect lunar glow of her skin shines up at him from his phone, the memorable and enticing curves of her arse. He forgets to breathe.

Accompanying it: _**When can I see you again? I have a surprise for you.**_

John stares at it for several moments. His phone is carefully angled away from Sherlock, but he's _Sherlock_ , he's going to recognize a change in John's breathing patterns. Just thinking the name gives him a desperate desire to compare the two figures side by side, cataloguing their similarities and differences for later consideration. Distracted, he finds himself doing the next best thing, comparing a mental image with the one in front of him, trying to sort it out— _this_ one is desirable, _this_ one is not.

He forgets where he is, until there's a low rumble at his ear and the sound of it shoots straight down his spine, sending him bolt upright. “John?” 

He manages to get the phone tucked, barely in time. “Hm?”

Sherlock is focused on him with unsettling intensity. “I just wanted to say... I'm—that is, you were right. I do underestimate you at times. That's...” a slight grimace to force out the next word “...foolish of me.”

“Sherlock, are you trying to apologise to me?”

Sherlock squares his shoulders as if to a difficult and unpleasant task. “Yes. That's it. I apologise. For, for underestimating you.” He waves a hand vaguely, as if that's covered the subject.

John leans back into the cab's seat and looks out the window for a moment. “That's all right then.”

 

Maggie asks him to meet her at the pub where they met. He steps in from the cold night air and loosens his scarf, looking over the crowd. It's busy for a Tuesday night, and raucous. There's footy on the television, most likely the draw. He tries to see who's winning when he sees the tall figure standing at the edge of the bar and freezes.

It is a literal impossibility. When John left the flat, Sherlock was hunched over an experiment in his dressing gown. There is no way the man got dressed and beat him down here, even assuming he knew where John was going. And yet, there he is, standing with his back to John, billowing coat and all. Panic hits him like a gust of wind. How on earth could he explain Maggie? She'd be here any minute.

Sherlock turns around, and the floor drops out of the world.  _Maggie._ He's unable to say anything, unable to make a sound as she moves toward him with leopard grace. John's face burns hot and cold and for a moment he's worried he might pass out.

The resemblance is so uncanny John resists the urge to rub his eyes. The coat. How had she found a fucking identical coat? The scarf was back, and he could see the silk blouse and neatly pressed trousers beneath the folds of wool. He'd chalk it up to horrible, horrible coincidence but for the evil smile on Maggie's lips as she reaches him. She leans forward she speaks in his ear so he can hear her over the sport. “Like my coat?”

He can't speak for the roaring in his head, shame and sickened desire twisting like eels in his gut. She pulls away from him, lips pursed. “What, it's not as much fun if I know?”


	4. Chapter 4

“I am so sorry, Maggie. I never—it wasn't intentional. I didn't--”

“Shut up,” she says, and lowers her mouth to his with a fierceness that doesn't read as anger, not in the least. When she releases him, she's still smiling that wicked smile. “Do you know when I twigged to it? The scarf. It seemed such an odd thing to leave on me. Of course, once I saw pictures of the two of you together, it started to make sense...”

John knows he should say something, _something,_ another apology. This would be so much easier if she were angry, but she's not, she's enjoying this, her pupils are dilated and there's a flush to her cheeks and god he can only imagine what a wreck he must seem.

She leans close again. “I find it very interesting that you say it wasn't intentional, John. When did you realize?”

His eyes dart back and forth looking for a way out of answering. “Not here. Can we please not talk about this here?”

She looks back at him for several moments. A cheer erupts around them as someone on the telly scores a goal. “Fine,” she says, and holds out her hand. He takes it. What else is there to do?

They're not quite halfway back to her flat when she tugs him into an alleyway. Before he can react, she thuds him against the wall.

“Maggie, what--”

“Shut it. You didn't want to talk.” With her hands pressing his shoulders back she swoops down and takes his mouth hard, all teeth and hardened lips. His hands half-raise as if in surrender, and stay floating there, unsure where to go or how to react. This is usually his ground, he's the pushy one, and he can't think how to respond. The only thing he doesn't want to do is fight back, to try and take control back from her.

She presses him into the wall with her body and there's something odd about it, odd about this tall creature pinning him against crumbling London brick and he can't figure it out. Her mouth leaves his and makes a sharp predatory trail down his throat that leaves him gasping in something near pain. It registers that her scent is wrong. It's the wrong sort of musk; dark, spicy with cinnamon and bay instead of anything floral. He doesn't recognize it, but it's not a woman's scent.

It decides him, and his hands slide underneath the coat—it takes an effort not to think of it as The Coat—and along her sides. His head falls back as she bites hard enough he knows there'll be a mark later. He moves his right hand to settle over her breast, but her left hand catches it before he can and stops him. Her mouth slants across his again, softer but no less insistent. She chuckles low in her throat as she slides his hand down along her stomach, his palms slick against the silk, then across the trousers and down.

For a split second, he thinks he's lost his mind. Instead of a heated cleft between her legs, there's something entirely different, nestled against her thighs, not flaccid, not erect, but unmistakable. He jerks against her mouth and tries to pull his hand away. She keeps his hand where it is, stronger than he took her for. She draws back to study his face.

“What the hell, Maggie--”

“Shh.” She drags the fingers of her free hand down the side of his face. “Maggie's not here right now.”

He shudders. It's wrong, it's wrong and it's... it's a little weird, but his body doesn't care. His fingers are already curling back around the phallus in her trousers, and it doesn't matter that it's not doing anything for her, because Jesus he can barely breathe. When he squeezes it she releases his hand and slides to the fly of his jeans, returning the squeeze. He's so hard it's painful, so hard he almost can't bear for her to touch him, but not touching him is worse. He pulls her mouth to his and starts to stroke. She mirrors his rhythm, stroking him through his jeans. She moans against his mouth, rocking her hips into his hand. “Fuck. Just like that, John. Don't stop.” She twines her free arm around his neck and pulls him close, her lips against his ear.

The sounds he's making are nothing as organized as moans, just exhalations of heated air forced through tight vocal cords. There's nothing but white noise in his brain, offline static as he works his hand up and down faster, bucking his hips against her hand. The only sound that cuts through the static is her voice. “God I would love to be in your mouth right now. You're going to make me come right here on the street.”

He whimpers, beyond anything else.

She doesn't stop though, hand rubbing and hips thrusting. “And when I get you home, I'm going to bend you over and fuck you until you scream.”

All he has time for is a strangled gasp before he spasms and jerks, coming in his jeans like a teenager. His knees go weak and he's forced to rely on her and the wall to stay upright.

Maggie gives him a moment, then nuzzles at his cheek. “Let's go home.”

The rest of the walk is silent, because John can think of nothing to say. He's more than a little embarrassed, strangely exhilarated, and damned uncomfortable thanks to the mess in his jeans. Maggie holds his hand companionably the entire time. When he glances over, she looks pleased with herself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to emmadelosnardos for some extra psychological insight and very helpful comments!

 She gives him space when they first arrive at her flat, and he's grateful. He takes the pair of jogging bottoms she offers and lets her bundle his clothes into the wash. Finally they settle curled on the couch. As they face each other, Maggie's arm drapes over the back of the couch, her long fingers twining in his hair. He leans into her hand. He's not hard now, thank god, because he feels awkward enough without that. He rolls his head around to look at her, moving over the rich deep blue of the silk covering her arm, up to where it opens against her throat.

“Tell me about him,” she says.

“Aw, Christ.”

Her hand tightens in his hair. “Tell me.”

“I'm not gay,” he says. It's what he always says. And regardless of what anyone thinks, regardless of his own feelings and desires, he knows it's _true._ The label sits on him like an ill-fitting jumper, meant for someone else. It's not _men_ , it's _Sherlock_. He closes his eyes; it's easier this way. “I don't know about him. I don't think he cares one way or the other. I don't know when it started. We're flatmates for fuck's sake. He wanders around half-dressed all the time, but so do I. It's what you do when you're at home.” Her hand leaves the back of his head to curl around and cup his cheek, dragging cool fingertips down his chin and neck.

“You surprised me earlier,” she said. “I didn't expect quite that much of a reaction.”

“It's just...” He swallows. “You know what we do. We end up chasing some bloke all the way across London, laughing like escaped lunatics the whole time, and my blood is up and maybe his is too and we'll stop in an alleyway somewhere to catch our breath, and he'll just _look_ at me. And there it is.” He can feel Maggie tugging at the buttons of his shirt and it terrifies him, but he keeps talking. “It's right there, I can see it. It's like watching a film where you know two characters are going to kiss and it doesn't matter how long the director stretches out the tension, it's _going to happen_ because for it not to is... is cheating. It's against the rules of cinema.” She's moving closer now, pushing his shirt from his shoulders. She's close enough that he can feel her body heat against his bare skin.

“But he just looks at me and Sherlock cheats _all the time_.” His voice drops in pitch and scrapes from his throat. “There's not a rule out there that he thinks applies to him.I know that no matter what I'm feeling, it's all adrenaline with him, nothing else. It's another high, like cocaine, or whatever it was he used to get off on.

“And nothing happens.” John is intensely uncomfortable, it's too much like sitting across from Ella in her office, treading on a ground ready to give way without notice.

“Keep talking,” Maggie murmurs, kneeling next to him on the couch now, taking his face in her hands.

“What do you want me to say?” He can't bring himself to look at her, and keeps his eyes averted.

“Do you want him?”

He can't answer. He can't get the words out; they're stuck somewhere deep in his chest, fluttering like leather-winged bats. Maggie starts to kiss his face, slow and careful, nipping at the line of his jaw. “Answer me, damn it,” she growls, and sinks her teeth into the flesh beneath his ear, making him cry out. She presses against him and bites again and it should be ridiculous, the shape of the flaccid toy in her pants tight against his stomach. It should be ridiculous but it's not, it fucks with his head until he can't tell who's kneeling in front of him. Her breath is hot and humid against his earlobe and her voice has taken on a shadowy timbre. “Tell me the truth, John: do you want to fuck Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes,” the sound hardly more than an escaped breath of air as his arms go around her waist hard and he buries his face in her chest, midnight silk cool against the burning flush of his cheeks. The words pour then; it's like lancing a boil. “He's so fucking smug sometimes like he knows. Like he knows he's fucking gorgeous and doesn't care, he doesn't care how it effects people, but he knows it does and he uses it like a fucking knife. And sometimes I just think, 'I could wipe that look off your face.'”

She's unbuttoning her own shirt now, wriggling in and around where he leans against her. “How?”

“Grab him by the hair and drag him down to my level, drag him down to kiss him the way I bloody well should have a hundred times by now.” His eyes are closed, and he's aware that she's moving against him and that clothing is falling away, but he's too far gone. “I want to hear that evil, evil voice of his break, to hear it gasp, to hear it muffled around my cock while I fuck that perfect, posh mouth.”

She nudges him back on the couch, bringing her mouth back to his clavicle, sliding between smooth skin and scarred. “Keep talking.”

She's tugging down the jogging bottoms as her mouth closes on one of his nipples. His eyes are closed as the words keep spilling messily between them. “He needs putting in his place.” His voice cracks into a groan as her hand closes around his cock, painfully swollen again. “And his place should be right where I can make him come any fucking time I want.” He pauses, chest heaving with the effort of breath as she crouches over him.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” she says. She's pitching her voice low on purpose, he knows it, he knows it's to make it easier for him to overlay another voice in his head. He hates her a little for it, for breaking him open like this.

But not enough to stop. “I want your mouth on my cock. Suck me until I come in your mouth.” He opens his eyes and looks down at her, trying to see her, kneeling between his legs, hovering over him like a succubus ready to drag his soul to hell. The visual cortex is a funny place, that he can see one thing with his eyes and see something entirely else with his mind, and he can, he can see something else, someone else, as she/he lowers her/his head and wraps her/his mouth around him, hot, wet, satiny. The tumble of curls over her/his forehead as she/he licks up and down the shaft... he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

“Jesus, yes,” he gasps. “Just like that.” He tangles his fingers in black hair, arching his hips against her/his mouth. “Your tongue. Use your tongue to—fuck. Yes.” She/He laps against the slit at the top of his cock, then achingly takes him all the way in, cheeks hollowing with suction, just enough. John's head falls back and he can't keep looking any more. He lowers his other hand and holds on for dear life, thrusting into the mouth surrounding him. He draws his knees up for better leverage and is rewarded by a single, cool, slick finger pressing between the cheeks of his arse. When it rubs lightly over his anus he nearly bucks off the couch. Just one single finger, curling the tip to press against him, and John shatters.

There's no longer a Maggie or a Sherlock or even a John, there are just body parts and sensations: cock, mouth, finger, arse, bollocks, tingling, tightening, aching, hot, cold, wet, tight. He's dimly aware that the finger has pierced him, is moving shallowly and in time with his thrusts, which are speeding up in desperation. The whiteout in his brain happens in a slow tumble and he can hear himself shouting a name—the wrong name, the right name—as he spurts into her mouth for what feels like years. The storm finally quiets, leaving him sweating and spent against her couch.

John doesn't open his eyes until she wriggles her way up his body to settle against his chest, propping her hands under her chin to look at him. The first thing he sees are her swollen lips stretched in a dark smile. “You really need to have a talk with your flatmate,” she says.

 

The rest of her words follow him home in the cab, where he sits and tries to put himself back together. _“You think it's just you, but you're wrong. I saw that picture in the_ Sun _. He's looking at you like you're a mouthwatering Sunday roast and he hasn't eaten in days.”_

John doesn't believe it, but at the same time he does. How many times has he seen that very look and written it off? He practices breathing like nothing has changed, like everything is the same. Deep breaths, all the way back to Baker Street where he's not entirely sure things will ever be the same again.

He climbs the stairs to find Sherlock sitting at the desk, using John's laptop as always, just one of the millions of little ways Sherlock's been eradicating the boundaries between them, stepping over the lines that say where one begins and the other ends. “John, you're back. Good. Can you hand me the--”

John is across the room before Sherlock can finish whatever ridiculous request he's about to make, the ones that are always supposed to reveal who is in control and who isn't. “Shut up,” John says, and grabs a handful of curls at the back of Sherlock's head, tugs his head backwards over the chair and lowers his mouth to Sherlock's startled one, lingering just long enough to make the message unmistakable: _things have changed_. Then he lets go and turns to the stairs up to his room, never looking back.


End file.
